


Nobody Said It Was Easy

by WritingQuill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post Reichenbach, Return, Songfic, Tumblr: letswritesherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 17:21:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns from his three-year hunt for Moriarty's web, only to find that a lot has changed in John's life. Their meeting doesn't go at all like Sherlock expects, though there is a hopeful future for them still.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody Said It Was Easy

**Author's Note:**

> This is my response to the [Let's Write Sherlock songfic challenge](http://letswritesherlock.tumblr.com/post/56048461490/the-results-are-in-and-for-challenge-3-your-prompt) on tumblr. 
> 
> The song of choice is "The Scientist" by Coldplay, and I should disclaim that I do not own this song or any others by this artist, and this is all just a bit of fun using Coldplay's beautiful lyrics as inspiration.

> _Come up to meet you, tell you I’m sorry_

It was the darkest hour before dawn. The cold breeze brushed past trees, pulling out leaves and carrying them through the pavement. The birds were starting to wake up, commencing their cacophony of chirps and sing-songs, getting ready for the day. It was all very moist in that pre-dawn air, breathing felt like drowning.

Though at the moment breathing was particularly difficult for other reasons. 

Sherlock Holmes stood in front of that black door facing Baker Street. His eyes bore into the golden numbers as if he were trying to see through them. For the first time in three years, he was home. He could almost touch it, and yet… 

His hands are calloused and rough from handling guns and fighting. His cheeks are hollow from lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of motivation to even exist anymore. For the past few months of the Hunt, Sherlock had been living on auto-pilot, and standing in front of 221 Baker Street felt like his brain was coming online once more. 

Now that Moran was no longer at large, that Moriarty’s network had been eradicated, it was _safe_. Not only for himself — about whom he cared very little at this point — but to John, and John mattered the most. And so Sherlock was afraid, because stepping into that building, walking through that door, it all meant dealing with the truth, with that he had done, and Sherlock was afraid of looking at John and seeing none of the man he had left behind. 

Still, with a deep breath and a last look into the faint glow of the sun rising in the distance, Sherlock brought out the key given back to him by Mycroft the night before, unlocked the door and stepped inside.

> _Tell me your secrets and ask me your questions  
>  Oh, let’s to back to the start_

Sherlock had to wait almost three hours.

He didn’t mind, though, using that time to get reacquainted with 221B. 

Even after such a long time gone, this was still home. Even if he still lived on the run for much longer than he had ever lived in this flat. 

The skull was still on the mantel, which brought a foreign smile to his face. His black leather chair, however, was gone. Replaced by blue armchair not dissimilar to the one John made his the first time he stepped on the flat. The new armchair was covered by a handmade lavender quilt, and an off-green pillow. There was a vintage-looking side table by it, and a white tamp on top of it. A small layer of dust covered the lamp, and the chair looked as if it had been undisturbed for quite some time.

There were similar small changed all around the flat. If the skull hadn’t been there, Sherlock would have thought this was a different place altogether. The antelope skull with the headphones was also gone, which was a bit sad, Sherlock supposed, since that was one of the few decorative items he actually liked. The blue skull print on the wall was also gone. In fact… Well, the smiley face and bullet holes were covered by a new layer of the same hideous wallpaper. 

Overall, the flat looked much… nicer. The kitchen was clean and bereft of any experiments — scientific ones, perhaps, but he was sure that given a free kitchen, John would not be afraid to do a little culinary experimenting himself. There were rugs on the floor and some pictures on the wall. The large desk by the windows was also gone, making room for a smaller, more intimate dinner table that had a lacy table cloth on top of it, but which also looked as undisturbed as the blue armchair. 

Mycroft had assured Sherlock that John was still living in Baker Street, but had he not, Sherlock would have thought this place had completely different tenants.

As he was about to inspect the picture frames on the bookshelves by the window, Sherlock heard a noise. Steps coming down the stairs. Unmistakably John, even after all this time. 

Sherlock felt a pang on his chest at the familiarity of that sound. 

Though he also felt worry for his friend’s reaction to his arrival. Three years was a long time, and though his grieving might be over, Sherlock knew very well John was good at holding grudges if he wanted to.

> _Nobody said it was easy  
>  It’s such a shame for us to part_

Sherlock held his breath in expectation as he waited for John to enter the lounge. He looked straight forward, clutching his scarf firmly in his hands, squeezing almost too hard.

John entered and instantly knew something was off. Sherlock felt proud of him at that moment, still sharp as he was on that first day. Still a soldier. 

The light was flicked on and, as Sherlock squinted to shield his eyes, he heard a loud gasp and the sound of feet tripping backwards. 

‘Wh—Sherlock?’ John asked, voice clipped, a mere ghost of what it had been as he shouted orders, made jokes, praised, giggled. Sherlock eyed him, steeling himself for what he knew was to come. John was bound to be angry, that was for sure. And when John got angry, he got quite physical, so Sherlock already expected a punch or two. (He also expected some from Lestrade, but that was for another time, and he had to focus on this moment, right now.) 

‘Yes,’ Sherlock said. He inspected John, his scrutinising eyes investigating, searching, filing away all the changes from the last three years. His hair was longer and greyer, making him look more distinguished. His chin still sported a stubble since he hadn’t made it to the bathroom yet, and he was wearing dark red boxer shorts and a grey T-shirt under under his tartan flannel dressing gown. The most significant difference was that now he wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses in front of his blue eyes, which was a bit surprising to Sherlock, actually, but pleasantly so, as he did enjoy being surprised by John. 

However, he was brought back from his reverie by the fact that something was yet to happen. John was still staring at him wordlessly, hands clenched into fists on his side, but otherwise somewhat calm. 

‘You died.’ Not a question. Also not true, but Sherlock didn’t wish to make this situation more antagonistic by pointing out the obvious. ‘I saw it, we buried you. There’s a grave with your name on it on the cemetery, I visited it not three weeks ago!’ 

‘I know, I had to make sure you all thought I was dead so my plan could work,’ Sherlock admitted. He needed to make sure John understood that all he did was for his sake, so he could live. He needed to understand! ‘I had to—‘ 

‘No.’ John turned away and grasped the door frame. ‘No, I… I don’t. I don’t want to hear this right now.’ His voice was heavy with emotion, his breathing more laboured, as if it had suddenly become hard for him to stand and breathe all at once. His eyes were snapped shut, and his left hand trembled. ‘I don’t…’ With no more words, John walked away, climbing the stairs to his bedroom and slamming the door shut, before Sherlock could even register.

> _I was just guessing at numbers and figures  
>  Pulling your puzzles apart_

The loud noise of the door slamming brought Sherlock back from his anxious dumfounded state. It wasn’t until that moment that he realised that John had changed most of all. He had changed so much along with the chairs and the wall art and the organisation of the kitchen cabinets and the books in the bookshelves and the knick knacks on the mantelpiece. John had become withdrawn and so, so sad. Sherlock suddenly felt his stomach drop, the pain of nostalgia washing over him, as he was reminded of the times past.

Of the chases across back alleys and rooftops; of the bitter smell of gunpowder from John’s Sig Sauer as he shot at criminals during their adrenaline-fuelled escapes; of the sweet taste of perfectly-made tea right after a particularly exhilarating case; of the brush of John’s fingers on his as they handed things to each other; of John’s warmth as they giggled together about something wildly inappropriate. 

Sherlock leant against the armrest of the blue armchair and stared at the red one, thought back to the first time John had sat there, and how quickly he got up at the chance of an adventure. And how every morning he would shower and come to the lounge clad only in his dressing gown — the same he had been wearing as he stood staring at Sherlock’s ghost in shock — and read the paper. 

Grief had changed him so much, Sherlock wished he could turn back time and do whatever it took to erase the things John had lived through. He wanted it all to be the way it was.

He wanted his experiments in the kitchen and John exasperated sighs as he opened the fridge door only to find yet another decaying body part and going on cases and laughing and being forced to eat by an irritated ex-army doctor with a forkful of curry.

> _Tell me you love me, come back and haunt me_  
>  Oh and I rush to the start  
>  Running in circles, chasing our tails  
>  Coming back as we are 

He climbed the stairs to John’d bedroom and knocked once, then opened the door without waiting for a response. John was lying on his bed, looking at the ceiling, though his eyes were unfocused. Sherlock walked in further and sat on the chair by the wall. This chair hadn’t been there before, he realised. It appeared that more had changed than he was led to believe, giving by the picture on John’s bedside table. The picture was of John, looking happy dressed in a sharp tuxedo, embracing a smiling auburn-haired woman who was wearing a simple white gown. They were hugging side-by-side, and her cheeks were glistening with what Sherlock assumed were happy tears.

‘Mary,’ John said. Sherlock looked up to find that John had been staring at him. ‘I met her about eight months after… well. And we were married a year after that.’ He turned to look at the picture and smiled. ‘I was so happy, because that sharp pain was gone, you know? I never stopped missing you, never would, I don’t think. But it was so painful before her, I couldn’t handle it anymore. She made it better, she made it all better. And I couldn’t believe my luck that she liked me back, because she was so, so special, such an incredible woman, so beautiful and charming and clever… I was just a jaded, grieving doctor with a limp, but she saw past all that, and I felt whole again for the first time since you were gone.’ 

Sherlock found it hard to breathe again. He steepled his fingers under his chin, preparing himself for where this story would eventually lead. 

‘We already knew she was sick before we got married. She had been sick all her life, but she wanted a wedding, and I wanted to make her happy. We were had been married for four months when she got really ill, and she spent three months on bed rest, the other three in the hospital. A year and ten months we were together, and for that time I was so happy, just to be back to being so sad all over again.’ 

With another pang on his chest, Sherlock noted the catch on John’s voice and the moisture around his eyes. He was sitting on the bed now, back resting agains the headboard, staring intently at his hands. 

‘The only two people I’d ever loved were dead, and both times I couldn’t do anything to stop it. And then… then all this time, all this time goes back, and now you’re back, and I just don’t know what to do,’ he finished, sighing deeply, trembling ever-so-slightly, and rubbing his left shoulder with his right hand. 

‘Aren’t you angry?’ Sherlock finally spoke. ‘Don’t you want answers?’ 

John looked at him, his eyes deep with indescribable emotion. He shook his head. ‘I don’t want to hear anything. I know about Moriarty, and I know about the snipers, Mycroft told me.’ Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘I’m just relieve that you’re back, but I’ll probably be angry later.’  
Sherlock nodded. ‘That’s fine.’ He stood up to leave, imagining John would perhaps want to piece his thoughts together, but a hand caught his wrist. That familiar warmth, those slightly calloused yet gentle fingers, pressing softly on his pulse, as if to check that he was really there, alive. 

‘Don’t go,’ John said. ‘Please, just… stay.’ 

Sherlock gave him a small smile and acquiesced, following John to the bed, where they sat side by side in contemplative silence. 

They sat there for hours, though it could have been days or years, it wouldn’t have made a difference, because he was back to John. They would eventually get over this, Sherlock knew, because even though their thoughts were separate and the silence reigned, John’s hand was still on Sherlock’s wrist, a point of warmth that linked them both and was a beaming light guiding their future yet to come.

> _Nobody said it was easy  
>  No one ever said it would be so hard  
>  I’m going back to the start_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you've enjoyed it, but please let me know what you think :D 
> 
> Cheers x


End file.
